


Atone

by theaceplace



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kinda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:29:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5914003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaceplace/pseuds/theaceplace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he plans out his final act of hope, Komaeda regrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my friend Koto for her birthday, which was technically yesterday whoops  
> Thanks to [hanayohime](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hanayohime/profile) for betaing!  
> It's been a while since I've written so please bear with me

His breath hissed, ragged and raspy through the mask on his face. His hand shook with the incredible strain of the tiny bottle in his grasp; he could afford to make no mistakes. He was flawed, flawed, flawed beyond compare, but this task had to be perfect as nothing else in his life could be. His final act as a tool of hope could not fail. He could not fail.

He would not fail.

After all, he could trust his luck like he could trust nothing else: not himself, not his mind, not the others, not his best fr- Hinata. Certainly not him, it seemed.

Komaeda laughed, briefly, a bitter sound to his own ears. After all he had done to guide his classmates towards their futures as the hope of humanity, he was going to take them away. They, the light of the earth, god-given talent, bringers of death and despair, would soon be gone. And he- he, the useless waste of space who ruined everything he touched- would be the sacrifice needed to bring everything to an end.

He remembered his gamble in the Final Dead Room, gazing at the walls sloppily covered in carmine paint or long-dried blood- which it was, he couldn’t tell. He held the gun to his temple, a bullet in his hand and five in the chamber. The thrill that ran through him as he willed himself to pull the trigger was unlike anything he had experienced before; his breath caught at the idea that his luck would finally fail him, that his blood would join the red that surrounded him, indistinguishable. The click of an empty chamber was deafening in the silence, and he didn’t know if he was disappointed.

The file that he was handed, a reward of sorts for the risk he had taken, held the answers to his questions, didn’t it? A recollection of their school memories, their profiles and grades, their talents- everything he had lost, he would gain. He could bring this hope to the others, fill in the missing pieces and finally be of use; maybe his existence had meant something after all.

Of course he was deluding himself; bad luck always followed the good; how could he expect otherwise? As he opened the file, he was overtaken by shock and denial, fear and loathing, confusion and disappointment. He read the data once, twice, three times, scanning the statistics and studying the pictures. His mind was flooded with events that he had no recollection of; could he really have forgotten about something like this?

One of the pictures caught his eye; it might have been him, he thought. What drew his attention was his hand; it was slim and delicate, with foreign red nails that he had never seen before. It hung limp and useless, attached at the wrist with thick, ugly black stitches. He shuddered, running his fingers over his own wrist, experimentally flexing his fingers. They moved as well as they had before, just as much his own flesh and blood as the rest of his body. He didn’t know what to believe anymore.

Perhaps the biggest disappointment, however, was Hinata’s file. Hajime Hinata, that enigma of a man who tolerated Komaeda even when he couldn’t tolerate himself. His partner, if he dared think himself worthy; the only one who seemed to care. Komaeda couldn’t get him off of his mind; he knew that he must have had an amazing talent to be such an amazing person.

Reserve course student Hajime Hinata.

Disgusting. He was appalled he had been spending time near such a mediocre person, looking up to him, caring for him, falling in lo- no.

Even so, he felt a niggling hope in the back of his mind. The one he cared about was as useless and talentless as he himself was. Maybe even somebody like him could deserve someone? But he knew that hope was no longer his prize to win, no longer his burden to bear. After everything he had done, he did not deserve it.

He needed to atone for his guilt; he had not succeeded in bringing people hope, only furthering the ideal of despair. It was almost crushing, in a way. Did hope lose, in the end?

He couldn’t let that happen.

So here he was, screwing the cap onto a fire grenade and placing it carefully in a box. The mask was stowed under his bed and he exited his cottage, hearing nothing but the faraway sound of the waves on the sand. His journey was a peaceful one; his final steps carried none of the foreboding that they should have. He was convinced and determined, and nothing would stand in his way.

As he lay in the dark of the warehouse, trembling from the pain in his hand, in his arms, in his legs, he counted down the remaining seconds, minutes, hours of his life. The music sounded loud in his ears and he could hear nothing else. There was nothing else. He was alone in this world, just like he always had been.

A single moment, or perhaps an eternity, passed. Shouts came from outside, audible even over the din of the speaker. Sudden light flooded his vision, and with his last thoughts he reflected on the hope he had fostered. He had done terrible things, yes, but with his last stand he would right his wrongs and overcome despair like he had always imagined. Nagito Komaeda, awful as he was, had finally been useful. As he drew in his final breath, he felt himself relax. Hope had won. He had won.


End file.
